We filed back to the basement holding area while production reset the stage above us.
The atmosphere shifted.
During rehearsal, trainees had warmed up, chatted, stretched tension from their limbs.
Now silence pressed down like a held breath.
Stylists darted between teams, fixing strands of hair displaced by masks, adjusting collars, dabbing shine from foreheads.
Production assistants verified costume integrity and microphone packs, checking serial numbers against clipboards. In-ears and mics waited on a rolling cart, each labeled and assigned.
Someone prayed quietly, hands clasped. Others mouthed lyrics, fingers twitching through choreography only they could see.
Moments later, the giant screen blinked dark.
A countdown appeared.
00:00:10
Every conversation died.
00:00:09
00:00:08
00:00:07
00:00:06
00:00:05
00:00:04
00:00:03
00:00:02
00:00:01
00:00:00
I watched as the countdown hit zero.
The screen cut to the stage.
